The Pen is Mightier
by Lono
Summary: He'd only meant to send her one, quick text message. Well, that escalated quickly.


**_The Pen Is Mightier _**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Sherlock is the property of others. Damn it.

**Further Disclaimery/Credit-giving at the end.**

**Warnings:** Sex. Sex. Sex (and Sex).

* * *

It started out as a simple check-in.

Sherlock Holmes had been frank in admitting (at least to certain people) that he did enjoy _some_ human interaction on a semi-regular basis. His friendship with John Watson had only reinforced that. Once he and the doctor entered a flat share together, Sherlock became a surprisingly social beast.

Well, 'social' by Sherlock Standards. Sure, he'd still sometimes sink into periods of catatonia or sullen silence. He wasn't lying when he told John that he sometimes didn't speak for days. But those moments had been by _choice_.

All it took was a matter of mere seconds; a fall from several stories to the street below, and Sherlock Holmes was once again alone.

Spending every night in a different city, field, car, or train, he worked to regain the life he'd rather gotten used to. And as he moved from place to place, he found himself going for longer and longer stretches where he did not utter a single word to another human being.

With nothing but his own thoughts for company, he felt like he was retreating to a former self that he didn't like. A former self that, yes, frightened him.

And so, when he calculated that he hadn't uttered single word aloud in two weeks' time, he decided to take Molly Hooper up on her request.

* * *

After faking his demise, they did not have long to talk before he had to disappear. But as Sherlock was preparing to leave, he handed Molly a SIM card and told her to buy a cheap mobile for it. He explained that he would only be in contact in the direst of situations, and not to expect to hear from him.

She'd nodded mutely, but then seemed to rethink her quiet acquiescence as she watched him stiffly pull his coat on and make his way to the morgue's rear entrance.

"Wait! Sherlock!"

He turned back at her voice, his eyebrow quirked impatiently.

She seemed to steel herself before she spoke again.

"Will you…. Will you please let me know that you're all right?"

At his expression, which she seemed to know preceded a refusal, she rushed on, "I don't mean a phone call. Just a message of some sort every once in awhile. One word even."

He stared at her impassively for a moment before he replied.

"I don't think that would be smart. Thank you again, Molly. For everything."

And the snick of the door latch closing behind him sounded a final knell as it echoed through the silent morgue.

* * *

Sherlock weighed his small mobile phone in his hand.

It was a cheap affair, assembled by some poor, underpaid worker in some soulless factory halfway around the world. It hadn't even cost him thirty quid and he was surprised that its built-in camera offered even a paltry three megapixels of resolution. He'd been surprised that it had mobile web browsing and email.

And it had SMS text message capabilities.

He glanced up, peering through the dark to the dank, rotting wood of the abandoned barn that he was currently hiding in. He'd managed to find one relatively dry corner where the dilapidated roof wasn't letting in the entire rainfall from outside.

He'd spent the day watching an old farmhouse located several hundred kilometers outside of Dublin, but he'd finally had to conclude that it was currently going unused by any of Jim Moriarty's henchmen.

Making his way back to his rental car's hiding place, a sudden storm had surprised him, the heavy rain and the gale of wind that came with it forcing him to take cover. As the downpour continued its onslaught, showing no signs of abating, Sherlock resigned himself to spending the night where he was.

It wasn't like he was accomplishing anything, anyway. He'd been in Ireland for two and a half weeks now, and while he had managed to get some information on Moriarty's past while he was there, this last week had garnered him nothing new.

So now all he could do was sit and wait.

Sherlock waged a silent battle with himself as he looked back down at his phone.

It would be smartest for him to maintain his strict, no-contact rule with Molly. It was his surest way of protecting the both of them. The fewer traces linking him to the pathologist who'd so aided him a year ago, the better.

To date, he'd only used his mobile for communication a handful of times. All of those instances had been brief, curt phone conversations with his brother. He'd only had to top up his minutes so far because of his mobile web usage.

But that meant that his number was still almost completely unassociated with him, didn't it? If he'd hardly used it, he had no reason to fear any messages he sent being intercepted.

And Molly was already successfully protecting his secret. So he had no worries that she would be ostentatious when she read any messages he sent her….

Emboldened by his rationale, he typed a quick message to her emergency mobile number and hit send before he could change his mind.

_I am alive._

_-S _

And then, because he couldn't just leave it one-sided:

_What is everyone's status?_

_-S_

Of course, Mycroft would have informed him if anything bad had happened to his friends, but he chose not to disclose that fact to Molly.

He felt that he might lose himself entirely if he didn't have this small, albeit electronic, connection with someone who knew him, but he also didn't think he was capable of fostering a conversation in any kind of organic fashion. He figured his best bet was to be business-like in his approach.

Sherlock waited for what felt like hours, continually checking his phone's display, worried he'd somehow miss a reply.

Finally, he felt the phone vibrate in his hand, and he had Molly's response opened before the alert had even finished.

_Thank you. Thank you for letting me know. I've been so worried._

_Everyone is fine. Safe. Saw J yesterday. He's sad. Misses you._

_We all do._

_-M_

Sherlock tried to scoff at her overly sentimental response, but he couldn't. He stared at each individual word, feeling an ache in his chest as he thought of everything he'd left behind.

He felt ashamed that he couldn't distance himself. But that shame did nothing to quell those oh-so-human feelings, so he decided, instead, to use those feelings a reminder for why he was doing what he was doing.

It might not have been good for him, and Mycroft would certainly frown at it, but Sherlock found himself typing yet another message.

_Have the reporters backed off now?_

_-S_

He'd paid plenty of attention to the media, but, again, he didn't want to stop receiving replies from her.

This time, Molly's response was almost immediate.

_Yes. They had almost all gone from the hospital a few days after you left. Your flat about a week after that. Is it safe for you to be contacting me?_

_-M_

He _had_ made it sound rather dire when he told her why he wouldn't be in touch. So now it fell to him to backtrack.

Sherlock was not a fan of correcting himself.

_Things are quiet. Not as much scrutiny now. As long as we avoid names, no one has any reason to intercept these messages. _

_Anything else I should know?_

_-S_

'Anything to keep you talking,' he thought to himself.

_Not really. As you said, things have been quiet. J is seeing a nice woman. Your landlady is doing well, too._

_G was suspended for a bit, but was reinstated to his previous role in August._

_-M _

He read her reply with a frown, and then quickly fired off another text.

_And you?_

_-S_

There was once again a long pause, bringing Sherlock's attention back to the steady patter of rain on the roof. The only light in the rotting barn was the glow cast from his mobile.

While he sat in his corner, waiting, he tried to picture Molly. Where was she tonight? Was she at Bart's, working a later shift? Or was she curled up on her sofa in her tiny flat, wrapped in a warm blanket as she hunched over her phone?

He felt his mouth curving slightly as he imagined her, wherever she was, wearing that awful jumper with the cherries scattered madly all over it. He remembered it more and more fondly each time he thought of it since that night before his "death."

Suddenly, just wondering was not enough. He had to know. He wanted to feel like he was, in some small way, seeing Molly.

Even though he had yet to receive reply to his last message, he rapidly typed another, and sent it off into the ether.

_What are you wearing?_

_-S_

* * *

When she heard it chime with a message, Molly Hooper had had to run from her sitting room to grab the "Sherlock Emergency" mobile from her bedside table. She dutifully kept it charged and powered on, but had long since given up any hope of ever having any contact with the ostensibly dead man.

Joy filled her when she read his first message, simply telling her he was alive. She'd _had_ to believe that his brother would know if any harm had befallen him, but she wasn't so sure that Mycroft Holmes would feel any need or inclination to keep her informed.

While everyone around her still felt Sherlock's absence with a keening misery, she had agonized as she waited for some sign that he might still one day return, whole and unharmed.

And here was the hint she'd so desperately waited for.

Then, to her utter amazement, he'd sent another message, this one requiring a response.

Once she got over her initial surprise and giddiness over hearing from Sherlock for the first time in a year, she felt like they were actually settling into a nice conversation. Or as nice as any conversation with Sherlock Holmes—conducted over text messaging, no less—could be.

After she gave him a few snippets about the lives of the three people he cared most about in the world, she was startled to when he sent yet another message, this one asking how _she _was doing, specifically.

She was in the middle of typing out a response describing her recent promotion at work, when her mobile pinged with another incoming message.

Leaving her draft, she navigated to the new message. And then just blinked as she stared at it.

_What are you wearing?_

_-S_

She had to be rational. This _was_ Sherlock Holmes, after all. He couldn't be trying to start something. She knew Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes most definitely _did not_ _sext. _

Besides, she doubted he would ever deign to start up a naughty chat with anything so cliché as "What are you wearing?"

Her mind made up that he was just oblivious to his message's implications, Molly went back to her previous draft, tacked on a "Pajamas and a jumper. Why do you ask?" to the end of her message and sent it off.

Molly made her way out to her sitting room, figuring she'd watch some telly while she waited for Sherlock's reply, but she'd barely settled back on to the sofa when the phone chimed yet again.

_Well, of course you got the promotion. You're the only competent forensic pathologist there._

_Which jumper?_

_-S_

Molly couldn't help but feel like Sherlock's attention was barely given to her good news. He seemed awfully concerned with her clothing.

_It's the white cardigan with cherries. The one you hate._

_-M_

_Why do you think I hate it?_

_-S_

_You've said on more than once occasion that you find it particularly awful. _

_-M_

Two minutes passed, and then:

_It is awful. That doesn't mean I dislike it, necessarily._

_-S_

Molly was feeling more and more lost. Was Sherlock saying he actually liked a charity shop jumper she'd bought when she was seventeen? Her own father had just shaken his head sadly when she'd pulled it out of the carrier bag the day she brought it home. And he'd worn plaid shirts with polka dot ties more often than not.

_Usually, describing something as 'awful' indicates dislike. Why doesn't it this time? _

_-M_

Sherlock really seemed to be on a roll, if the speed of his replies was any indication.

_It suits you. It's cheerful and I've rarely seen you anything but the same. When you're not cheerful, it's usually because of something I've said or done, I do realize._

_-S_

Molly frowned at her mobile's display. It wasn't just the fact that Sherlock was generalizing a bit, seemingly simplifying her emotions down to a base comparison to a brightly colored item of knitted yarn, though that _did_ bother her.

No, what was nagging at her more was the fact that he still seemed to feel like he had her all figured out. That she was as predictable as what top she chose to wear on any particular day. Sure, she had startled him with her insight that night in the lab, but she was still Dependable Molly Hooper, who never had any surprises up her sleeve.

She couldn't help herself. She decided to wipe that smirk off of his face. Well, the smirk she imagined him wearing.

_And now I'm taking off the jumper. And all of the rest of my clothes. What does that say about me?_

_-M_

* * *

Sherlock glowered at his phone, suddenly feeling very unsure about, well, everything.

He quickly replied:

_What do you mean? _

_-S_

And her response was almost just as quick.

_Just what it sounds like. I'm tired of my clothes. I don't feel like wearing anything. _

_-M_

This conversation had taken a rather baffling turn, Sherlock could freely admit to himself. What _was_ she talking about? One minute, he was trying to pay her a compliment, and the next, she replied, saying she was stripping naked.

And once she said she was taking off her clothes, he couldn't help but picture her doing just that. He could just see her standing next to her bed or her sofa, unbuttoning that cheerful, cherry jumper and letting it drop to the floor.

Then he saw her delicate fingers quickly grasping the hem of a plain t-shirt, pulling it over her head.

In his mind's eye, he watched as her long hair dropped back over her graceful shoulders once it cleared the t-shirt's collar, spilling onto her chest. He could just imagine a dim, lone lamp's light catching those strands of russet hair, creating roping shadows across her small breasts. Glimpses of her dark, pink nipples would peek through the soft strands.

And he could see her shimmying her flannel pants down her legs before she stepped out of them, leaving her entirely bare before him. Her legs would look soft in the lamp's glow, and the thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs would simultaneously catch the light and beckon with promising shadows. Shadows that whispered, "_Come closer."_

Sherlock shook his head once, twice, trying to banish the image. It wasn't that he found nudity disturbing. He just had never found himself thinking about Molly Hooper's nudity; at least not in such detail, and not with the fluttering low in his belly that he'd felt as he pictured it.

He decided to get back to the matter of hand, and sent off a reply to Molly.

_Why are you telling me this? _

_-S_

She must have been waiting for that question, because her reply came within the same minute that he'd sent his.

_I figured you're trying to picture what I'm doing. So I'm helping out. I've just lain down on my bed, by the way. Are you lying down, too?_

_-M_

Sherlock had rarely felt so out of his element, particularly when he was alone. But still, he gave an honest reply, despite his having no idea what was happening.

Besides, he was too distracted to dissemble. His head wouldn't let him do much more than picture Molly sprawled across her bed, her fingers stroking low on her belly as she softly smiled at him.

_No. I'm sitting up against a wall. _

_-S_

_That doesn't sound comfortable. And we both know the stress that position can have on the vertebrae. Why don't you take off your coat and join me?_

_-M_

Logic would normally have him responding that, as he was currently across a sea from her, in another country, he could not feasibly join her. But instead, his hands went to his coat's buttons, and he soon had it spread on the ground. (How did she know he was even wearinga coat? But then, he'd pictured hers wearing her jumper, so he supposed it wasn't that strange an assumption).

Sherlock lowered himself to the ground, lying on his back as he held his phone above his face, peering at its screen.

He couldn't find it in him to reply with anything remotely intelligent.

_I'm lying down. What now?_

_-S_

_I've always admired your shirts. Their buttons seem to be holding one by a thread, literally. I've often wondered if they would pop right off if I just gave your shirt a firm tug. _

_-M_

He wasn't sure how to respond, so he didn't. He didn't have to wait long before another message arrived.

_I've also wondered what would happen if I ever ran my hands over your bare chest. Is your skin sensitive? What about your nipples? Would you like it if I scratched them? Pinched them? Sucked on them? _

_-M_

Sherlock's cock had begun to harden at the beginning of Molly's onslaught, and it gave its first impatient jerk as he read those words. As he imagined her doing what she described.

_Yes._

_-S_

His right hand held his phone, but his free left hand stroked across his chest, unconsciously freeing the buttons that held his shirt closed. He barely registered the draught of cold air that hit his exposed skin.

It was amazing how warm it was, considering the storm still blowing outside.

He was pulling his hands out of his shirt's sleeves when he received yet another text from Molly.

_What would like to do to me?_

_-M_

Sherlock wasn't quite so inexperienced as his brother liked to insinuate, though not by far. So he felt a twinge of nerves as he started to type.

_If you're naked, it only stands to reason that I find out if your skin really is as soft as it always looks._

_-S_

And then,

_And although you spend your days around putrefying flesh and chemicals, you always smell clean and good. Like detergent and something floral._

_-S_

He felt himself growing bolder as he fired of yet another text message, his left hand still stroking his own skin as he pictured Molly receiving his messages, her hand brushing against her body as she read.

_ Does the flesh above your sternum smell and taste like soap and sweat? I want to press my nose and mouth to your skin and feel your soft breasts brushing my face as I do so._

_-S_

Her reply came quickly.

_I want your mouth on me. And I want my mouth on you. I want to bite your neck and suck on the skin there, too. To be fair, though, I want to suck on all of your skin. Everywhere. _

_-M_

Sherlock had once watched Molly eating an ice cream cone in the hospital cafeteria. He'd not been able to identify why, exactly, but watching her pink tongue dart out to lap up the cold dessert, he'd felt disconcerted.

Now he knew why. It was surprising it had taken him this long. He was a genius, after all. But apparently not where Molly Hooper was concerned.

Sherlock didn't even realize his hand had unbuckled his belt and undone the snap and zipper on his trousers until he was lifting his hips off of the ground to more easily push his pants and trousers over his straining erection and down to his thighs.

Once he was settled back in—grateful that he'd had the forethought to spread his coat out now that he could still feel the hard, cold ground against his ass—Sherlock once again began typing furiously.

_I want to lick your breasts and your neck. I want to suck a mark onto your belly and hips. And I want put my mouth between your legs. I want to taste just how wet you are for me. Do you want that?_

_-S_

He had just taken his length in his hand and was giving it a first, firm stroke, when his phone vibrated with another message.

_Yes. I want your mouth on me, your tongue stroking my clit. And I want your cock in my mouth. I want to suck you until you're so hard that you don't know how you can keep from coming right then and there. _

_-M_

Sherlock couldn't muffle the groan that escaped as he read her message and his other hand kept its firm hold on his cock. It became easier and easier to stroke his hardness as beads of pre-come wept out.

But the exquisite torture was going to end too fast, so he force himself to stop his stroking as he shakily typed another message to Molly.

_But then I am going to press you down into your mattress as I move on top of you. I can just feel your dripping wetness brushing the head of my cock. Do you want me to come inside you?_

_-S_

He bit his lip, trying to regain control. Each time he sucked in a gulp of air, his cock moved slightly in his light hold. He imagined it was Molly's hand, not his, and it was the best and worst feeling he'd ever had.

His message alert momentarily distracted him, until he read what Molly was imagining for them.

_I want to fuck me so hard that my bed hits the wall over and over again. And I won't even care who can hear me crying out for you. I want to hear you making noises that I've only imagined you making until now. And, yes, I want you to come inside me._

_-M_

Sherlock's hand had resumed its movements, his strokes getting more and more frantic as he gave up trying to reply, his body too consumed with the pleasure Molly was bringing him in his mind. He hardly noticed his hips jerking up with each downward stroke of his hand until, with a final cry, he reached his peak, his cock jerking in his grasp as he spilled come over his fingers and onto his belly.

Sherlock finally sank back down onto his coat, gasping for air. He vaguely wondered if he was going to need to go out into the rain to clean off the sticky mess now covering him.

But for now, he was feeling too weak to do anything other than limply lift the phone and squint at its display.

There was another, unread message from Molly waiting for him, as well as an alert from his mobile service provider informing him that he'd now used 90% of his minutes and needed to top up soon.

But he still had enough minutes to send one, final text to Molly, who was hundreds of miles from him.

He had never felt nearer to her.

And he had never felt so far away.

* * *

Molly lay in a sweaty heap in the middle of her bed, her hand still limp between her thighs. She fought off a sudden, crushing sleepiness as she sluggishly typed another message to Sherlock.

_When will you come home?_

_-M_

She fought sleep as she waited for his reply. And when it came, Molly smiled.

_Soon._

_-S_

* * *

**Note: ** Yup. I just wrote that. I have to be up in four hours to get ready for work. And instead of sleeping, I wrote a Mutual Wanking story. I _really _hope I didn't disgust everyone in the process.

The idea for this fic was from people much more creative than I am. Petra Todd and gapanther79 had a bit of a back-and-forth after Petra posted a lovely little NSFW gif set on Tumblr, where she also offered someone to take it as a smut prompt because she was busy with other projects. I took the prompt and didn't so much run with it as scuttle back to my cave and blushingly write… that.

With that in mind, this the first time I have even remotely attempted scenes of a sensual nature, as the MPAA would say. Not sure if I pulled it off. Apologies to the world for any awkwardness and/or lameness. This is unbeta'd, to add insult to injury. All mistakes are my own.

Oh, and the title was mostly inspired by Darrell Hammond's Sean-Connery-on-Celebrity-Jeopardy SNL character. Because I have the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old.


End file.
